(no subject)
1. "No."
He stared mistrustfully at the man before him, in a fancy uniform and a stern face, and tall boots. He didn't like boots like that; he preferred bare feet. The man offered him work, a home, a purpose. That he liked; purposes were important. But the man wanted to put him in a uniform, they said, and send him to fight first. Fight his way to society, and other grand things, but he knew what happened to fighters. They died, and they never came back. Duty called to him; the words of medals, and places to belong, and protection; but one cry was louder, the cry that still made him shy away from red, and dance when he felt it, and left his hair in a long braid, not cut short and neat. And with that cry, he denied their war, and he denied their guards, and he denied their society. What would happen, he did not know; but death was not an option.
2. "I love you."
It was less of something he had needed or wanted to say, and more something he wished he could have. She was pretty, and she smiled, and she called him handsome; He felt absolutely nothing for her, or her pretty smile, or her pretty curves. She was the kind of girl any self-respecting young man wanted to woo, court, and bed. But he just brushed her away and told her to stop bothering him.
3. "I'm not interested."
He wasn't even twenty, but the war ached in his bones just like everyone else's, so far away from their homes, their wives, and their mistresses. He was wild, and young, and had no one.
He was older, and he missed his wife, he said. He laughed with the boy, and talked to the boy, and taught him French. The boy pitied the man, and could not say no, not even to those twisted hands, that missing eye, not for the world.
And when morning came, and the smoke cleared, and the boy walked away while the man didn't, the boy regretted nothing.
4. "Leave."
He wished he had never seen the damned whore. She was causing him a headache, and her caterwauling seemed despairingly endless. Fed up with her and giving in, he gave her a few francs and told her to get out of his sight.
5. "Go."
Valjean was staring at him, almost begging - No, he was, in fact, begging. For 3 days. He wanted three days. Three to get the dead whore's spawn. Javert highly doubted three days would be sufficient to go, find the girl, and come back. But he stared back at the convict, stared at the dead woman on the bed, and told him to go.
Everything could be explained later.
6. "Forget him."
Valjean didn't matter. A flagrant abuser of parole, yes, and a convict, and a criminal still, but not a dangerous man. Not a man Javert would find frightening on the streets; Not a killer, or a rapist, or a violent man. So he had escaped, again; good for him.
"Forget him." Javert had better things to do.
7. "No."
He didn't care who the boy on Valjean's shoulder was. Some revolutionary bastard, most likely, and he deserved to die. He would not let Valjean go, not this time, not with so many tormenting questions in his head and the answer standing before him. Let the boy die, like his fellows, if he was not already dead; In any case, he was a traitor. He glared at the tired, filthy, pleading man standing before him, escape in his grasp, and told him no.
8. "Yes."
When the two Englishwomen approached him, with matching predatory grins, he hadn't known what to think. They offered him a job, doing good, doing his duty for the good of the world, and smiled like they knew everything about him.
He could never deny duty, and when he faked his death and followed them, he wasn't so troubled when they changed his life forever.
9. "Hello."
He was still standing there when Valjean returned, trying to hide the lost, vulnerable look in his eyes. For the first time in a very, very long time, he hadn't known what to do. He had hesitated. Logic screamed within him, and the world fell to pieces, and the sheer uncertainty was the most terrible torture ever devised. He had shaken his head at the offered wrists, denying what he fought so long to achieve, and sat, drained, on the ground. Valjean had sighed, and seen him home, promising to return when the good inspector regained his wits. Javert did not think he could.
10. "You can go free."
Days turned to weeks, and then months, and Javert did not return to the Prefecture. He had written a thousand letters, none of which seemed right. Whenever he thought of escape, of the river, Valjean was outside his door, far too cheerful, and kind, and only making it worse.
God damn this growing fondness for the man; god damn Valjean for being a man so easy to grow fond of. It made no sense; the Valjean he had known was a criminal, a convict, an animal on the run. Reckless and stupid. This Jean, the Jean that never deigned to leave him in peace, was kind, overly cheerful, and only a little skittish. He was still, Javert insisted, terribly stupid.
But whatever Javert decided to do with his own life; use it, throw it away, or let it fade, Jean Valjean could keep his.
Muse: Javert
Series: Les Miserables
((Play spot the crossover!))
He stared mistrustfully at the man before him, in a fancy uniform and a stern face, and tall boots. He didn't like boots like that; he preferred bare feet. The man offered him work, a home, a purpose. That he liked; purposes were important. But the man wanted to put him in a uniform, they said, and send him to fight first. Fight his way to society, and other grand things, but he knew what happened to fighters. They died, and they never came back. Duty called to him; the words of medals, and places to belong, and protection; but one cry was louder, the cry that still made him shy away from red, and dance when he felt it, and left his hair in a long braid, not cut short and neat. And with that cry, he denied their war, and he denied their guards, and he denied their society. What would happen, he did not know; but death was not an option.
2. "I love you."
It was less of something he had needed or wanted to say, and more something he wished he could have. She was pretty, and she smiled, and she called him handsome; He felt absolutely nothing for her, or her pretty smile, or her pretty curves. She was the kind of girl any self-respecting young man wanted to woo, court, and bed. But he just brushed her away and told her to stop bothering him.
3. "I'm not interested."
He wasn't even twenty, but the war ached in his bones just like everyone else's, so far away from their homes, their wives, and their mistresses. He was wild, and young, and had no one.
He was older, and he missed his wife, he said. He laughed with the boy, and talked to the boy, and taught him French. The boy pitied the man, and could not say no, not even to those twisted hands, that missing eye, not for the world.
And when morning came, and the smoke cleared, and the boy walked away while the man didn't, the boy regretted nothing.
4. "Leave."
He wished he had never seen the damned whore. She was causing him a headache, and her caterwauling seemed despairingly endless. Fed up with her and giving in, he gave her a few francs and told her to get out of his sight.
5. "Go."
Valjean was staring at him, almost begging - No, he was, in fact, begging. For 3 days. He wanted three days. Three to get the dead whore's spawn. Javert highly doubted three days would be sufficient to go, find the girl, and come back. But he stared back at the convict, stared at the dead woman on the bed, and told him to go.
Everything could be explained later.
6. "Forget him."
Valjean didn't matter. A flagrant abuser of parole, yes, and a convict, and a criminal still, but not a dangerous man. Not a man Javert would find frightening on the streets; Not a killer, or a rapist, or a violent man. So he had escaped, again; good for him.
"Forget him." Javert had better things to do.
7. "No."
He didn't care who the boy on Valjean's shoulder was. Some revolutionary bastard, most likely, and he deserved to die. He would not let Valjean go, not this time, not with so many tormenting questions in his head and the answer standing before him. Let the boy die, like his fellows, if he was not already dead; In any case, he was a traitor. He glared at the tired, filthy, pleading man standing before him, escape in his grasp, and told him no.
8. "Yes."
When the two Englishwomen approached him, with matching predatory grins, he hadn't known what to think. They offered him a job, doing good, doing his duty for the good of the world, and smiled like they knew everything about him.
He could never deny duty, and when he faked his death and followed them, he wasn't so troubled when they changed his life forever.
9. "Hello."
He was still standing there when Valjean returned, trying to hide the lost, vulnerable look in his eyes. For the first time in a very, very long time, he hadn't known what to do. He had hesitated. Logic screamed within him, and the world fell to pieces, and the sheer uncertainty was the most terrible torture ever devised. He had shaken his head at the offered wrists, denying what he fought so long to achieve, and sat, drained, on the ground. Valjean had sighed, and seen him home, promising to return when the good inspector regained his wits. Javert did not think he could.
10. "You can go free."
Days turned to weeks, and then months, and Javert did not return to the Prefecture. He had written a thousand letters, none of which seemed right. Whenever he thought of escape, of the river, Valjean was outside his door, far too cheerful, and kind, and only making it worse.
God damn this growing fondness for the man; god damn Valjean for being a man so easy to grow fond of. It made no sense; the Valjean he had known was a criminal, a convict, an animal on the run. Reckless and stupid. This Jean, the Jean that never deigned to leave him in peace, was kind, overly cheerful, and only a little skittish. He was still, Javert insisted, terribly stupid.
But whatever Javert decided to do with his own life; use it, throw it away, or let it fade, Jean Valjean could keep his.
Muse: Javert
Series: Les Miserables
((Play spot the crossover!))